Poor Cornus fees his frantic wife elope;
And curfes Wit, and Poetry, and Pope.
Friend to my Life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle fong)
What Drop or Noftrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a Fool's wrath or love;
A dire dilemma! either way I'm fped;
If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be filent, and who will not lye:
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace;
And to be

e grave, exceeds all pow'r of face:

I fit with fad civility, I read

With honeft anguish, and an aching head;

And drop at laft, but in unwilling ears,

This faving counfel, Keep your piece nine years.

Nine years! cried he, who high in Drury-lane, Lull'd by foft Zephyrs thro' the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends, Oblig'd by hunger, and requeft of friends:

The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it; • I'm all fubmiffion; what you'd have it, make it.' Three things another's modeft wifhes bound, My Friendship, and a Prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon fends to me: You know his Grace:

'I want a Patron; afk him for a Place.'

Pitholeon libell'd me- but here's a letter

Infosms you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better.

• Dare

Dare you refufe him? Curl invites to dine;
He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn Divine.
Blefs me! a packet.-'Tis a ftranger fues,
A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Mufe.'

If I diflike it, Furies, death and rage!'

If I approve,

Commend it to the Stage.'

There (thank my flars) my whole commiffion ends,
The players and I are luckily, no friends.

Fir'd that the house reject him,

'Sdeath I'll print it,

And fhame the fools-Your int'reft, Sir, with Lintot.' Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:

Not, Sir, if you revife it, and retouch,'

All my demurs but double his attacks ;

6

At laft he whifpers, Do; and we go fnacks.'
Glad of a quarrel, ftraight I clap the door.
Sir, let me fee your works and you no more.
'Tis fung, when Midas' Ears began to fpring
(Midas, a facred person and a King),

His very Minifter who fpied them first

(Some fay his Queen) was forc'd to fpeak, or burft. And is not mine, my friend, a forer cafe,

When ev'ry, coxcomb perks them in my face?

A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous things.
I'd never name Queens, Minifters, or Kings;

Keep close to Ears, and those let affes prick,
'Tis nothing-P. Nothing, if they bite and kick ?
Out with it, Dunciad! let the fecret pafs,
That fecret to each fool, that he's an afs:

The

The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?
The Queen of Midas flept, and, fo may I.
You think this cruel? take it for a rule,
No creature fmarts fo little as a fool.

Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break,
Thou unconcern'd canft hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gall'ry in convulfions hurl'd,
Thou ftand'ft unshook amidst a burfling world.
Who fhames a Scribbler? break one cobweb thro',
He fpins the flight, felf-pleafing thread anew:
Deftroy his fib or fophiftry, in vain,

The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd on the centre of his thin defigns,
Proud of a vast extent of flimfy lines!
Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer,
Loft the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnaffian fneer?
And has not Colley fill his lord, and whore ?
His butchers Henly, his free-mafons Moor?
Does not one table Bavius ftill admit?

Still to one Bishop Philips feem a wit?

Still Sappho-A. Hold, for God's fake-you'll offend, No names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend:

I too could write, and I am twice as tall;

But foes like thefe-P. One Flatt'rer's worse than all. Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,

It is the flaver kills, and not the bite.

A fool quite angry is quite innocent:
Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent.
Vol. VI 21.

C

One

One dedicates in high heroic profe,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes :
One from all Grub-flreet will my fame defend,
And more abufive, calls himself my friend.
This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, Subfcribe, fubfcribe!'
There are, who to my perfon pay
their court:
I cough like Horace, and, tho' lean, am fhort.
Ammon's great fon one fhoulder had too high;
Such Ovid's nose; and, Sir! you have an Eye'
Go on, obliging creatures, make me fee
All that difgrac'd my Betters met in me.
Say for my comfort, languifhing in bed,

6

Juft fo immortal Maro held his head ;'

And when I die, be fure you let them know
Great Homer died three thoufand years ago.

Why did I write? what fin to me unknown
Dipt me in ink, my parent's, or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,

I lifp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
I left no calling for this idle trade,

No duty broke, no father difobey'd

The Mufe but ferv'd to ease fome Friend, not Wife,
To help me thro' this long difeafe, my Life;
To fecond, Arbuthnot! thy Art and Care,
And teach the Being you preferv'd to bear.

But why then publish? Granville the polite,
And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write ;

Wella

Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praife,
And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays;
The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read ;
Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head;

And St. John's felf, (great Dryden's friends before)
With open
arms receiv'd one Poet more.
Happy my fludies, when by these approv'd!
Happier their Author, when by these belov'd!
From these the world will judge of men and books,
Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.

Soft were my numbers; who could take offence
While pure Defcription held the place of Senfe P
Like gentle Fanny's was my flow'ry theme,
A painted miflrefs, or a purling ftream..
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;
I wish'd the man a dinner, and fat ftill.
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;
I never answer'd, I was not in debt,

If want provok'd, or madnefs made them print,
I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint.

Did fome more fobèr Critic come abroad;
If wrong, I fmil'd; if right, I kifs'd the rod.
Pains, reading, ftudy, are their juft pretence.;.
And all they want is fpirit, tafte, and fenfe.
Commas and points they set exactly right;
And 'twere a fin to rob them of their mite.
Yet ne'er one-fprig of laurel grac'd thefe ribalds,
From flashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds :

Each